


The Steady and Constant John Watson

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor!John, Heartbeats, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, not series two compatible, trigger: super-sensing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, boredom is better. At least, it's preferable to this...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Steady and Constant John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> Not betaed or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine. Pointing out typos is encouraged. :)
> 
> What happened with Sherlock shooting the wall always interested me. If he gets destructive when he's bored, what's to keep him from being self-destructive? That is (most likely) the reason behind his using. So I wrote what I think would happen when Sherlock gets a bit too overwhelmed with being inside his own head.

It started—as always—with something small.

“Sorry, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, louder than usual. “But we don’t need you on this one. We found the murder weapon in the car boot and he confessed.” Sherlock’s eyes darted over to the man being manhandled into a police car. Red clay on his shoes, same as at the body dump site—yes, they had the right man.

“Amazing,” Sherlock said. “For once, Scotland Yard can actually do its own work.” Damn them.

“Yeah,” the DI said. “Sorry for having you come all the way out here. Next time, right?”

“Yes, fine.” Sherlock was getting tired of Lestrade yelling at him. The street wasn’t that loud. Though it was. The car that sped by them. Four cylinders had no need to be that loud. The school children standing at the edge of the police tape should really learn to whisper. If they don’t then their teacher will figure out that the boy in the red cap was responsible for the death of the class gold fish. But they were whispering. Hands cupped over mouths, pressing lips close to ears to whisper the secret.

The scratch of Lestrade’s pen was deafening. Cheap, police-provided ink rolling noisily over even cheaper, large-pulp paper. A new notebook. No, not new, just different. The police were cutting back on the cost of office supplies. The confetti tears at the top of the notebook showed that this was old, and judging by how dry the paper was, it had probably taken up residence in Lestrade’s bottom drawer for quite some time. The rust along the metal wire told him: five years. Probably the book Lestrade used to write up Sherlock’s last (actual) drugs bust. And the smell of the paper—too acidic. It would do nothing to preserve the notes he was making at that moment. Lestrade cleared his throat. Might as well have been coughing in Sherlock’s ear for all the sound it made. Loud, all of it, so loud….

All around them, everything so loud. Pressing in on Sherlock’s ears, trying to smash his ear drums in his head. Even Anderson (standing twenty feet away, dusting the car boot for more prints) was loud. His stupidity wasn’t just loud, it was deafening. Clawing at Sherlock’s mind, making him dumb.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade yelled again. The consulting detective flinched away. “Are you alright?”

“Headache,” he said, not lying at all. His head was pounding. “Next time, when you call me, be sure that it’s actually worth my time.”

“Yeah, promise,” Lestrade nodded.

“You don’t have to yell at me!” Sherlock shouted. Lestrade took a step back, eyeing the other man. “You bring me out for a case when I am ill,” he wasn’t when he left the flat, but Lestrade didn’t need to know that, “I do my best to be civil, and you shout at me? What is the point of that? To alienate an asset such as myself? Don’t bother me again, Lestrade, not until you have something real.” Sherlock needed to get out of there.

Turning, he all but ran away from Lestrade, under the police tape, down the street to hail a cab. When the rub of his fingers against the handle of the door sent a pulse of pain throbbing up his spine and through his head, Sherlock already knew what was going on.

As he sat in the back of the cab, trying his damndest not to deduce the cabbie (widower, three children, two girls, one boy, moonlights for a car service for extra cash to support his daughters’ school tuition, the boy is grown and in the military, stationed in Afghanistan, sends money when he can) Sherlock hoped that this would all be over before John came home tonight.

The pain behind his eye as the sunlight got brighter told him that, no, it wouldn’t be.

 

~

 

John had just finished seeing his last patient of the day when his mobile chimed. Suppressing a groan (because it might be the surgery’s automated system, alerting him that they booked him a last-minute appointment) he pulled the phone from his pocket and read the text. Thankfully, it was from Lestrade.

 

_Are you still at work?_

_DI Lestrade_

_Just finished, leaving now. Why?_

_You need to get back to Baker Street. Fast._

_DI Lestrade_

John’s blood ran cold for a second. He could count the number of times Lestrade told him to return to Baker Street on one hand. And they all involved Sherlock on a few of his danger nights.

 

_Mrs. Hudson and I checked his room last week, he was clean._

_That’s not why. Just get home as fast as you can._

_DI Lestrade_

John already had his coat on and was half-way out the door. Throwing a hasty goodbye to the nurses, he ran out to get a cab. Once he was safely on his way home, John dialed Lestrade. Some things just couldn’t be explained via text, and Sherlock was frequently one of them.

“Lestrade,” he answered.

“What are you on about?” John asked. “What’s wrong with Sherlock?”

Lestrade let out a breath. “How long has it been since his last case?” He asked.

“Don’t really know,” John said. “The surgery’s been really busy for the past week, so I haven’t been in lately. The last case I was on with him was about a week a half ago. Why?”

But Lestrade didn’t answer his why. “A week and a half? Shit…”

“Greg!” John snapped into the phone. “Tell me what’s going on?” So far, all he’d gotten was orders. Get home fast; tell me when your last case was? Usually, doling out orders was Sherlock’s line.

“I called him to an arrest today,” he said, finally starting to explain. “There was a murder not an hour before and I wanted to show him all the evidence to see if he could connect this man to it. But before he got there, we found the murder weapon and the man confessed everything. Sherlock tried to play it off like normal,” meaning insulting everyone “but just as he left, he was… different.”

Okay, the start of the explanation was good, this however, was not helpful. “Different how?” John asked. Lestrade said nothing. Right, John was done with this. “Greg, just fucking tell me! I’ve been living with him for a year and a half, he’s done every fool, insane thing in the book! _Nothing_ will shock me. So just tell me!”

“Sherlock’s never been able to last more than a week without a case,” he said quietly. “You’ve seen him when he’s bored, right, but this is worse than shooting the wall. When he doesn’t have anything to occupy himself, he literally goes out of his skull. Because he can’t turn it off.”

“Can’t turn what off?” John whispered too. The cabbie probably didn’t care about their conversation, but something in Lestrade’s tone told him that very few people knew about this. Whatever _this_ was.

“His mind. His deductions. His magical crime-fighting superpowers, whatever. He can’t turn them off.” He said. “So when there’s data coming in, but nothing to solve… he’ll eat himself up.”

John could think of a number of things that could mean. None of them good. “So what do I do?”

“I don’t know,” and he genuinely didn’t, John could hear that. “For God’s sake, just don’t leave him alone until this is over.”

“Alright,” John nodded. In his head, he'd already figured out what that meant: a weekend shut inside the flat, eating take away and protecting Sherlock from himself. John was very used to protecting the world from the damage that Sherlock could do, and protecting Sherlock from the world that didn’t understand him. Protecting the man from himself… that was another problem. “Thanks Greg.”

“Good luck.”

John hung up the call and looked out the window. Almost at Baker Street. “Almost there, Sherlock,” he whispered to himself.

 

~

 

The water was starting to cool around him, but he wouldn’t get up to fix it. He’d just managed to get to a quiet place.

Sherlock laid in the tub, lights off, head almost completely submerged under the water. Only his nose broke the surface, and if he had it his way, that wouldn’t be necessary. He had a straw earlier, but even that was too much sensation. The air wooshing through the plastic tube, as loud as a gunshot. Too much. And with his great need and lack of resources, this was as close as he could get to complete sensory deprivation. It wasn’t nearly enough to calm the storm that was his mind—rocketing out of control, tearing itself to pieces, power lines down across the tracks, crash, fireball, no survivors—but it definitely downgraded things from a hurricane to a tropical storm. Give it time and he might even make it down to a tropical depression.

He was so close to being better—so close to making it so John didn’t have to see this side of him—and a little cold water was not about to stop him.

Then the water rippled (such a small amount, had it been a normal day, he might not have noticed it) and all hope came crashing down. He couldn’t hear it, but he didn’t need to hear to know. The ripple, the vibrations passing through the flat: John was home. And Sherlock had maybe three minutes (probably less) until John eliminated every other possible place he could be. Three minutes to pull it together when getting half-way there had taken all day. He could do this.

The water rippled again, more noticeable this time. John opened Sherlock’s bedroom door. Less than three minutes, then. A muffled sound wave reached his over-tuned ears. Probably his name, but Sherlock was not about to try and figure it out, not when he had seconds to pull himself together before John found him. He could do this, he could do this, he could do this—

More vibrations across the surface of the water. The insides of Sherlock’s eyelids turned red when the light was turned on. “Sherlock!” Not even the water could muffle that panic.

A strong hand reached down and grabbed his wet shirt, hauling him up out of the water. “I can do this!” Sherlock shouted. He didn’t even remember starting to speak. “I can do this John!” He said, blinking in the light. It was all too much again. Much too much too much too much…

“Sherlock!” John’s frantic voice breathed. With one hand still on his sopping shirt, the other flew to his neck, taking his pulse. “What the bloody hell are you doing? Are you trying to drown yourself?”

“The light,” Sherlock just managed to pant. He brought a hand up to shield his eyes. “Turn it off, please, turn it off, John…”

“Fine,” John said as he stood up. Less than a second later, the room was plunged into glorious darkness, the only illumination coming from the open door. John sat down next to the tub again—his jumper already soaked from Sherlock’s thrashing—and resumed his ministrations. Checking Sherlock’s pulse, palpating his neck, turning his head this way and that to examine as much as he could in the limited light. “Light’s off now.” He said. “Start explaining.”

“I can’t do this,” Sherlock almost sobbed.

“Can’t do what?” John asked.

“I can’t turn it off,” he said. “Needed to dull everything…” and then, completely without his permission, Sherlock’s mind started working at that whirlwind speed he spent so long trying to slow. “You ran up the stairs. Your cabbie, he’s a smoker, and an alcoholic. Tries to cover the smell of smoke with mint schnapps. Trying to save his failing marriage.”

“How could you possibly know about his marriage from the smells his cab left on me?” John asked, all the while continuing his exam.

“He switched from menthols to clove cigarettes recently. Most likely because his wife didn’t like the way they affected her. He was trying to keep her happy, but wasn’t willing to give up his addictions.” Sherlock said.

John rolled his eyes. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“John,” Sherlock said, something new and even more worrying in his voice. “John, I can’t stop it… I can’t turn it off. Need sensory deprivation, anything to make it stop…” he leaned his head forward and rested it on John’s shoulder. “Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop…” he mumbled into the soft wool.

“Stop what, Sherlock?” John whispered.

“Everything,” that voice was almost a sob. “It won’t stop. My head… it won’t stop!”

Christ, is this what Lestrade meant? John thought. Sherlock was perplexing at the best of times, but now he was practically incoherent. “Sherlock,” John tried to keep his voice low. Now that he’d checked all the vital signs he could in the darkness, now he was just holding Sherlock. His hands on sopping wet shoulders, pressing that over-stuffed head against him tighter. “You need to explain,” he whispered. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Everything hurts,” Sherlock said in the smallest voice possible. The sound made John die a little inside. “And I can’t turn it off. Can’t shut out the stimulation. Everything is too bright to look at and everyone is screaming at me.” Tipping his head forward, Sherlock tried to bury himself deeper inside of John. “I just want to turn off the world, but that’s impossible. So I came in here to get the next best thing.” A choked sob made its way through Sherlock’s lips, muffled only by John’s shoulder. “But it’s not enough!”

He watched Sherlock’s shoulders jerk a few more times. “Right,” John nodded. “I know what to do.” Leaning over, John pulled the plug and started the water draining, then, he turned back and started pulling Sherlock out of his wet clothes.

When Sherlock saw the water circling down the drain, he got even more manic. “No! John!” Fingers scrambled against John’s chest. “I need it!”

“Sherlock!” The younger man’s panic made undressing him impossible, so John shifted to grab his thin wrists, holding him in place. He pressed their foreheads together so that his eyes were the only thing Sherlock could see. “You have to trust me. I’m going to help. The water will come back in a minute, I promise, but first you need to get out of these clothes. Do you trust me?”

Sherlock didn’t even have to think about that. “Yes, John.”

“Thank you,” he nodded and continued to undress Sherlock.

It wasn’t easy. The clothes Sherlock usually liked to wear were always dry-clean only, so the water hadn’t done them any favors. The buttons that were already straining to hold it together across Sherlock’s smooth chest were pulled to their absolute limit now. Some were rent from the fabric, but eventually, John had Sherlock’s clothes in a soaked pile next to the tub.

At first, he thought Sherlock might be embarrassed to be undressed like a child. But no. He just laid his head against the side of the tub, his body as close to John as possible. No embarrassment then, good, because the next part was along these same lines.

Water completely drained by now, he put the stopper back and started the water again. He checked the temperature with his hand before pulling away from the tub and standing up. “No!” Sherlock shouted, grabbing for him.

“Shush,” John soothed, already pulling his jumper over his head. “I’m not going anywhere.” Sherlock watched, eyes shining with tears, as John removed his clothes as well.

Once he was undressed, John reached behind him and shut the bathroom door, plunging them into darkness again. His eyes had adjusted enough so that he wasn’t completely blind, and he could see relief flood Sherlock’s face. The tight line across his brow vanished immediately and he all but sagged down into the water.

Alright, time for more. “Shunt up,” John said. Sherlock did. He folded himself down over his legs and waited for John’s next move, which was to climb in the bath with him. Once he was seated behind Sherlock, John thought he’d have to pull Sherlock back against him. Much to his surprise, he came willingly, leaning back and practically melting against John. “Not just yet,” John whispered to him. His arms came to circle around Sherlock’s chest, holding him as close as possible.

After another moment, the water was high enough and John reached forward to turn it off. He quickly set about arranging Sherlock. For all his long, gangly limbs and his usual difficulty, Sherlock was surprisingly easy to maneuver. Like literal putty in John’s hand.

Eventually, he moved them to the correct spot: Sherlock, flipped over onto his side, his arms around John’s hips, with his ear pressed to John’s chest. Right over his heart. He brought the other hand up and settled his wrist across Sherlock’s other ear. Then he waited.

When the water stopped sloshing and the bathroom fell completely silent, it happened. Sherlock didn’t make any noise. Only the tightening of his fingers on John’s hips told him Sherlock had noticed. “John,” he moaned, voice dripping with calm and satisfaction at finally, finally, finally, having reached a quiet place. “Your heart, John, I can hear your heart!”

“Mmm, yes.” John whispered. “Hush now.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock nodded. “Thank you.” Everything fell silent and Sherlock let himself concentrate on the only thing that mattered: John’s heart.

That warm, wonderful organ that kept this man alive. It was here. Pressed to Sherlock’s ear in as many ways as possible. The throbbing, thump, thump, thump of the organ itself, and the gentle pulse of John’s wrist across his other ear. Sherlock didn’t know if he could feel John’s heart more than he could hear it, or if he could hear it more than he could feel it. No matter what though, it was lovely. And with John’s wet skin pressed against every inch of his own, Sherlock could finally feel himself start to let go.

One by one, his senses stopped swarming and were slowly put back under his control. His clean skin slid along John’s as if they were contained in a zero-friction environment, nothing to trip him up or over stimulate. The assaulting smells of the cab were gone, leaving behind nothing but John’s natural fragrance, and the ticklish, clogged feeling invading Sherlock nasal passages finally went away. He snaked his tongue out to trace a few beads of water over John’s chest; he could taste just a hint of sweat, but not enough to overwhelm, and the prickling of the air against his tongue stopped. The constant, steady hammering of John’s heart pressed against his ear in the most comforting way possible, drowning out every other sound. With the darkness closed around them, Sherlock was completely surrounded by _John_. He filled up every sense Sherlock had and everything was finally bearable again.

These moods were few and far between (more when Sherlock was using, less after he met John) but he’d never been able to calm down this quickly. Usually, they went for days on end, frying every synapse he had, which made it all the more amazing that John—wonderful, amazing John—could stop this in its tracks. Could bring Sherlock back to normal using nothing more than his body and his wonderfully constant heartbeat.

“Mmm,” Sherlock mumbled, his face still buried in John’s chest, still licking at a few drips sliding down his pectoral. “Your heart is so steady,” he whispered. Finding their flatmate fully submerged in the bathtub, barely breathing, would’ve freaked anyone out. But not John. John was prepared—always would be—for Sherlock’s maddest moods. He always took it in stride. And his warrior’s heart never quickened. Always steady. Always the same. Always John.

“John Watson…” Sherlock whispered. “Steady and constant when I’m fluctuated and erratic.”

John breathed a sigh of relief. At least, he would’ve if Sherlock’s head wasn’t firmly planted on his chest. That sounded like Sherlock, the _normal_ Sherlock. A Sherlock who had control over his own mind. John had never imagined that he could lose control of it, but obviously, he could. It was good to have him back to form.

He stayed quiet and let Sherlock relax against him, but he kept his arms wrapped around the consulting detective. John wasn’t sure if it was for Sherlock’s comfort or his own. The pain in his voice was still ringing in John’s ears… he couldn’t forget it.

After a few quiet moments, John realized that Sherlock’s finger was tapping at his chest. Was he trying to get his attention? No, because it was just a steady tap. It didn’t take long for John to understand what it was: his heartbeat. Sherlock was tapping out his heartbeat. John closed his eyes to enjoy the sensations and he felt something against his stomach. It was Sherlock’s heartbeat. Fallen into the same rhythm as his. So he wasn’t just tapping out John’s heart, he was tapping out _their_ heart.

Moving as gently as he could so as not to disturb Sherlock, John leaned down and pressed a kiss against his wet curls. He rested his cheek against the top of Sherlock’s head. They both remained that way until the water had gone cold.

“Alright now?” John asked. “We’re getting all prune-ie.” He smirked in the darkness.

Sherlock smiled against John’s chest and nodded. “I’m not up for leaving the flat, but it’s better. For now.” He wasn’t stupid enough to think this was over. These moods usually lasted days, and he wouldn’t let himself believe they’d solved it in less than six hours.

“Okay,” John nodded. He pulled the stopper with his toe and they waited for the water to drain. When the colder air closed around them, John pulled them both out of the tub. He wrapped Sherlock in a towel (the softest, fluffiest one they had) and then dried himself off.

He took a quick moment to hang their soaking clothes over the shower rod and turned back to Sherlock. “Bed now,” he whispered. Sherlock nodded and let John lead him into the bedroom. John pulled back the covers and settled Sherlock under them before climbing in himself and wrapping his arms around him again. “All good?” He asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. John moved to adjust himself slightly and Sherlock’s grip on his arm tightened. “Don’t leave, alright?” He asked. It was his normal, confident voice, but John could hear it: Sherlock was still afraid. Afraid of what, he wasn’t quite sure. The re-emergence of that black mood? Or being alone? So far, John seemed to be the only thing that could help, so maybe Sherlock was just afraid of losing his security blanket. And John had no objections to being a giant, human security blanket.

He hugged Sherlock closer and buried his nose behind the younger man’s ear. “I’m not going anywhere.” He whispered.

“Good,” Sherlock said. He didn’t nod because he didn’t want to dislodge John’s nose from his hair. “Good.”

John smiled and kissed him again. “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.”

The End

**Author's Note:**

> I'll let you decide if this is established relationship or pre-slash. Thanks for reading!


End file.
